


Sharpe's Luck

by InkSiren



Series: Sharpe's Fanfic [1]
Category: Sharpe (TV), Sharpe - All Media Types, Sharpe Series - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Banter, Cannon-Typical Language, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Near Death Experiences, Team as Family, Whump, shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27808339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSiren/pseuds/InkSiren
Summary: Richard used to have a jacket with a bullet hole in the breast, and wondered if maybe it's what stopped him getting shot. What are the odds of hitting that mark twice?His rifleman's jacket came with no such charm.
Series: Sharpe's Fanfic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2034673
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	Sharpe's Luck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueNeutrino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueNeutrino/gifts).



> So my good friend BlueNeutrino got me hook line and sinker for the Sharpe series. I've set out to write her as many fics as I can leading up to Christmas. I'm hoping to post a new one every day.

Sharpe’s Luck

It’s a misty, unassuming morning when Major Richard Sharpe decides to go a little too far from his men and takes a bullet to the chest.

The shot is sudden, the crack snapping all of their heads towards the ridge, but as Hagman raises his rifle to neutralize the threat, Patrick turns to see Richard, chest stuttering and expression lit with surprise. His body acts before he does, and he’s moving towards his major, catching him before knees can hit soil.

“Richard? Hey, hey there you are easy,” Patrick is saying, not knowing what he’s saying, not knowing what he needs to do. “Where were you hit?” he asks, not really expecting an answer, not with how breathless his friend sounds. 

The thing that horrifies him more than any other is that when he finally gets them both to the ground, finally gets Richard sitting and leaning against him, the blood comes away on Patrick’s chest and then on his hand, blotching red across the breast of Richard’s rifleman’s jacket.

The buttons that were before a beaten silver are sticky, and Patrick is distracted by the glitter of them as he rips them away, fingers shaking as Harris takes watch and Dan drops to his knees across from him.

“Easy, easy sir we have you,” Dan says with a calm Patrick absolutely doesn’t feel. The bullet has penetrated two layers of uniform and found its way to the skin beneath, and Richard’s throat is working and he’s trembling terribly as he grips Patrick’s coat and tries to breathe.

Dan’s fingers take over for Patrick and he just holds on. Finally, Sharpe manages a full breath and he’s gasping like a man fresh from drowning when Dan pulls back bloody fabric to expose a glittering in the wound so terribly close to his heart. 

Patrick is dumbfounded by it, cannot stop staring, and the sight has halted Dan as well.

“It’s struck a rib, I think it were stuck,” Dan says, far too matter-of-fact.

“Well, get it out,” Patrick hisses, not caring that this isn’t the place for it. He’s still in shock himself, unable to process, and in the back of his mind he thinks that the bullet rather looks like one of Richard’s buttons. 

Glinting metal matted with red. 

Dan, before either of them can think, obeys, reaching out with both hands and pressing the skin together around the bullet. Richard gives a powerful buck and cry in Patrick’s arms, and even though the pain must be terrible Patrick is almost giddy at the strength he has to exert to keep Sharpe from lurching away from them both. He’d been certain this was a mortal wound, but by some stroke of luck it seems to have done little more than to stoke his major’s feral side. 

The bullet squelches free of the wound with surprising ease, and Dan catches it in his palm, staring at it. “It were,” he mutters, looking up at Patrick with wide eyes. “His rib stopped it going farther.” 

“Since when?” Patrick hisses, and Richard’s breathing has begun to resemble something normal. He presses a dirty hand to his chest and curls into Patrick’s stomach, hiding his face as his side continues to heave. “Bullets at this range shatter bone, he should be dead.” 

Dan can only shake his head, looking down at Richard as he drops the bullet into a pouch at his hip. “Alright, sir?” he says instead, resting a hand on Sharpe’s shoulder. Richard rolls slowly back, head leaning against Patrick’s arm, his eyes closed as his throat works in a swallow. Patrick can see the pulse running up both sides of his throat as the sweat makes his skin glitter like those buttons. 

“Knocked the breath clear out of me,” he says finally. 

“I cannot believe you’re not dead,” Patrick says, and Richard lifts his head, breathing a long huff through the nose as he tries to inspect the wound with grit teeth. 

“Am I not?” he asks, pulling at the jacket and actually trying to sit up. Patrick helps him, a hand still at his back as Richard squints at the damage. It’s purpling quickly and terribly, but the bleeding is already down to almost nothing and his breathing is sound.

Patrick has never seen anything like it, and it isn’t until Richard pulls on his jacket and gets it somewhat back into place that they all understand:

The bullet had gone through the metal and leather of his cross belt before puncturing wool and linen. Slowed that much, Sharpe’s rib had been enough to do the rest of the job and protect his lung from what would certainly have been a fatal injury. 

“Bugger me,” Sharpe says, breathless and wide-eyed himself. “What are the chances of that?”

Patrick shakes his head, and Richard touches the bloody fray of the bullet hole in the breast of the jacket. A moment later, he startles Patrick by barking a laugh.

“What’s funny then? How many times do you think you can cheat God before it catches up to you?” he demands, the adrenaline crash starting to hit him. He sits back on his heels, scrubbing at his face with a dirty hand. “Mary mother of God,” he mutters, sagging. 

“I reckon this will stave off at least a couple bullets,” Richard says, and he’s grinning in an almost mad way. Patrick suspects that’s a result of thinking you’re dead one moment and finding out you’re not the next. “What are the chances some frog will find this mark twice?”

Patrick stares, then snorts, shaking his head before he starts to chuckle himself.

“Reckon not good sir,” Dan pipes up, grinning. 

“I used to have a jacket with a hole in the breast, took off a poor bastard still clutching his musket,” Richard continues, leaning back and allowing Dan to tend further to the wound. “Always wondered if it would bring luck, and I never got shot in that one.” 

Hagman pours a trickle of rum into the divot and Sharpe hisses through his teeth, muscles tensing as he dabs away the liquid.

“Well, guess now you’ve got that strange bastard luck for this coat as well,” Patrick says, a steadying hand back on Richard’s shoulder as Hagman presses a new cloth to the wound. 

“I am sorry for the belt though,” Richard says, clucking his tongue as he pulls it over his head and runs it through his hands. He runs a thumb across the ruined silver. “ I’ve just oiled the leather.” 

“And now you’ll live to oil it again,” Patrick says slyly, thumping Richard on the back of the shoulder and eliciting a grunt. “So try to count your blessings, you bloody fool.”


End file.
